I gave birth to my first son just a little after a year of marriage. At the time, I was 24 years old. To some, that may sound like the average age for a first time mother however, none of my friends had children nor were any of them married. I remember walking into my first expectant parent class; the other mothers were at the youngest, 30, and I felt like I was a pregnant teen and I'd done something.
After 23 hours of labor and 2 and a half hours of pushing (why do moms always include this?), he'd arrived. He was beyond a miracle and the most amazing thing I'd ever laid eyes upon. He was the first grandchild and nephew for both our families so needless to say, all were eagerly waiting to meet him.
A couple of days later we returned home where friends and family gathered and prepared meals and did whatever they could to help us. I held it together pretty well. I loved my son and already I'd gained a whole new sense of faith but my body was still reeling from the aftershock of birth, a long labor, and the reality that this baby couldn't make me love his father the way a wife should. Sure, my body was old enough to get married and to have a child but perhaps the older students in our parenting class waited for good reason. Had I rushed? Had I just brought a baby into something I was already questioning? I was overwhelmed, riddled with guilt, I was depressed and lonely and I'd only been a parent for 72 hours.
Within a week, post-partum depression set in. Most of our friends were still happily living the single life and loneliness was definitely a conditional factor. As the weeks went by, I continued to fight the post-partum. I'd gained confidence as a mother and getting exercise and healthy eating made a difference. That being said, when my son was only 9 weeks old, I returned to teaching full time and 2 weeks after that, began my masters program....did I mention until my son was 6 months old, it took him until 4am to fall asleep?...I had no idea what to do and letting him cry it out wasn't working.
So here I was depressed, working full time, commuting to Falls Church for my masters...oh, and I had a tiny human to take care of! On the weekends when most would hope to sleep in, baby and I were on our own because his father had a part time job bartending late on Friday and Saturday nights and he needed his sleep on Saturday and Sunday mornings.
Adding chronic fatigue to the list of other responsibilities was a recipe for failure...something had to give. My mind and body were on overload and within 3 weeks of returning to work full time, I had to take medical leave. I was having 3-4 panic attacks daily...at home, at work, in the car...and while I was home alone with the baby. I felt like I couldn't breathe, I'd leave my students alone in class and run outside of the school because my mind would race, my heart would palpitate, and I felt like I couldn't catch a normal breath.
There was a four month wait list to see a psychologist (welcome to the stress of Northern Virginia!). So when my son was just 14 weeks old, I could no longer handle what my body was doing. I showed up at the door of my wonderful family practitioner and immediately began sobbing and then...having a friggin panic attack!!!!
Now, I've said from the beginning that I'd be open, raw, and disclose far more than I'm comfortable with so here is something I've shared with very few people. Maybe a dozen people know this but now I'm admitting it to you...with a 4 month wait list and escalating post-partum depression, my doctor felt that my sanity and safety as well as the baby's meant immediate professional help and the only way to get this for me was to admit me to the mental health ward at a local hospital.
We all have stigmas we place on things and thankfully, the stigma we've place on mental illness is lifting but for me, it was truly disheartening. I felt defeated, I was in such a low place...I now had "shame" to add to my library of dirty self talk.
The cute female candy striper that helped me find my way to the mental health unit asked me at least 3 times if I was sure that's where I was supposed to be. I guess I didn't match the profile of the mental ward's typical patient but why do I need to separate myself? I was sick, they were sick, and God willing...we were going to get better.
(part 2 will arrive next Wednesday/Thursday...God willing:))
No comments:
Post a Comment